


we keep up the good fight

by katydidmischief (cassiejamie)



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiejamie/pseuds/katydidmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nana reports him missing on a Monday and by Friday, Tuck's on a company plane to Rome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we keep up the good fight

**Author's Note:**

> My many thanks to everyone who read my previous story _twin prop airplanes (passing loudly overhead)_ and I hope you'll enjoy a somewhat angstier piece; I'm currently working on some lighthearted smut and will hopefully have that up sometime in the next few days.

Nana reports him missing on a Monday and by Friday, Tuck's on a company plane to Rome.

(The Director had tried to stop him, had tried to send more agents with him, a team, and somehow he's still on this plane on his own. He's got a nine mil in a holster and a small arsenal in his duffel; he has no change of clothes because this is his plan: he's getting FDR back tonight. There's no other option.)

The flight is too long and he cleans his gun, oils it, three times before he reaches into the duffel at his feet to pull out FDR's own weapon to do the same. He reads the mission specs—they'll be blown to hell soon enough, but always good to know what the analysts think _should_ happen—and the bios; he gets up to piss, then checks on the medical supplies on the way back to his seat.

He dozes.

_New York is cold this time of year, but Tuck isn't bothered by it. He's got his peacoat and his favorite scarf and he wraps himself up so nicely that FDR tells him, "You look like you fell out of a fucking Ethan Allen catalogue."_

_Tuck snorts and says, "And you know what Ethan Allen models look like because?"_

_"Fuck you."_

_"Not now, darling. Too many people."_

_FDR groans and shoves him hard, managing somehow to still seem deadly and professional as they enter the Museum of Sex a moment later._

Tuck snaps awake when the plane lurches through turbulence and he blinks at the darkness outside; the lights of the city are coming across the horizon, a signal that he's oh-so-close and he licks his lips. Pulls his cross from under his shirt to kiss it with the words, "Guide me, Father," before sliding it away, and hangs on to the armrests.

;;

The case was supposed to be simple. In and out. Don't even need both of you, just FDR and his best suit... okay, second best suit and no, you can't bill the Agency for dry-cleaning. Again.

FDR'd smirked and gone, come home with a shadow in his eyes but the mission was clean cut, done.

So why, Tuck asks on Monday, hasn't FDR answered his phone in three days?

Why is he not home?

Many whys and questions their bosses won't answer until Nana goes to check on him herself, just in case he's only hiding away in that apartment of his, and finds what Tuck's been fearing.

"Sweetheart," she says over a tinny phone connection, "he's not here," and "everything is broken," which means possessions, but Tuck knows it's his heart too; he goes to the apartment himself, finds FDR's (their) coffee tables snapped in half, FDR's (their) television with the white spiderwebbing across the LCD, FDR's (their) bed destroyed.

He finds blood in the bathroom and the shower liner is gone.

FDR is not dead, he mutters, "He's not dead," and Tuck pockets the old DMB shirt FDR loves before going back to the office. "He's not dead."

;;

The warehouse is too well-lit during the day, the broken windows letting in yellow sunlight; it'd have been a suicide mission hours ago, but the night has afforded Tuck cover and he's almost thankful that the Director had delayed his departure now that he's got so many places to hide, to use. (Almost. The Director'd still made arrangements for one of their extraction teams to meet him at the airfield and that's six more people he's got to keep from getting killed.)

"How do you want to run this?" Anderson asks as they lay, prone, on the waning roll of the hilltop beside the warehouse.

For a second Tuck doesn't reply—he grins wickedly at the realization that it's always fucking _warehouses_. One of these days someone's going to get kidnapped to a five-star hotel and Tuck hopes it's him—and then mutters, "Alone."

"The boss..."

"Secure the perimeter. Neutralize any possible alerts and standby for immediate withdrawal." It's clipped, the consummate professional. He adds, in a still-hostile but friendlier tone, "Intel suggests that Agent Foster has already been tortured by Michael Gianconi's best. He will not be mobile and the more agents we've got inside, the slower it will be to extract."

Anderson nods in half-understanding: this needs to be a quick, sharp strike. It needs to be in and out, like Foster's previous mission was supposed to be (and thank fuck he'd been read in to certain... privileged information), and he slithers back to talk to his men.

Tuck closes his eyes once he's alone and lets his mind drift, lets go of the memories that have been creeping up at the back of his mind since he'd boarded the plane and threaten to distract him. He has to be clearheaded or he has to abort right now, which is laughable really. (He's not aborting. No way in fucking _hell_ is FDR spending one more night bleeding and in pain on ice-cold concrete. He's not.)

He opens his eyes, blinks as he runs the fence until he sees the hole he'd been told of, and gives Anderson the signal: it's Go time.

;;

_That they'd never fuck during a mission was supposed to be the rule, but there's optimism and then there's FDR and Tuck can't actually resist when it all boils down—he can say no all he wants, but they don't get enough time alone as it is so he seizes the moment with gusto._

_"Oh, fuck," FDR moans into the first thrust and his back arches under Tuck; he clenches his toes and bites down on his lower lip until a pearl of blood is smeared by his tongue and Tuck leans down to suck a bruise into the pale skin over FDR's collarbone._

_He finds a rhythm that is not enough and everything at the same time, one that keeps FDR on edge and he pleads for more and harder._

_"Fuck. Come on, Tuck," he groans, slamming a hand to headboard as he rocks against the pillows. "Gotta come, man, I gotta."_

_"So come."_

_"Can't."_

_It's a whimper and Tuck shivers because this is FDR at his most vulnerable, the man he knows from their childhood who'd thought if he could just be Superman, he could change the rotation of the Earth, he could reverse days and time and bring back his parents and the world would make sense again. (Vulnerable, FDR is, and a little bit broken.) And he whispers, "You're so lovely like this, Franklin, taking my cock."_

_FDR comes, swollen lips wide and his eyes closed as the orgasm rips through him._

;;

They force him awake with water here, dousing him with it in the early morning when it's coldest out and it feels like ice being poured over him. It's been... he doesn't know how long, but it feels like forever and it's likely just days, and he can't keep track in the dark little room they've got him in.

It used to be an office and FDR'd spend the first few hours trying to find anything to pick a lock or to defend himself and he'd come up with nothing. (Those first few hours were the only break he'd gotten since they'd grabbed him right out of his apartment on Friday; in clearer moments, he wonders if Tuck had finally used his key... fucking moral bastard, wanting to date FDR like they hadn't known each other for years and... yeah, this may be a rant to avoid thinking about what's coming soon.)

In the hall, he hears a grunt and the squeak of metal and he thinks, _they're early today_ through the haze of the drugs they'd given him and the pain they'd forced on him. At least they'd moved on from knives to other, more creative methods, and he begins the process of steeling himself for what's to come, refusing to break and praying that maybe today is the day they'll kill him for not cooperating.

The door snaps open.

"Franklin."

He knows that voice and he tries to remember why; he flails out against the hands that wrap around his biceps and haul him to his feet, and tries to kick when he's flipped and pinned to the solid mass of a man behind him. He tries to bite the hand that covers his mouth to muffle the screams.

Odd. They've never done that before.

"I swear, if they hadn't already drugged you..." the man breathes, then tells FDR, "It's me, Franklin—it's Tuck. I need you to stop fighting, all right?"

FDR ebbs his fight reflex and twists his head around to try to focus on the face at his ear. "Tuck?"

"Hi, love."

He goes limp, the last of his energy having been expended, and asks, "What took you so long?"

;;

The Director is at the air field when they touch down in the States and Tuck is tempted to just walk right by the woman, to stay with FDR as he's loaded up in an ambulance by their guys: he knows why the boss is there, but he can't bring himself to care because this was her fucking error this time and FDR bore the brunt of it.

Still, office politics. (Playing them had kept everyone off their backs about the relationship, something that needs to continue—especially right now.)

He lets her speak and listens to the apologies without looking at her and when she stops, he says, "I'm taking leave."

"Of course."

"Anderson and his team were exemplary," he adds, then walks away, to the waiting car, and lets out the breath he'd been holding. "Whatever hospital they're taking him to," he orders the driver with his head thrown back on the rest, "is where you'll be taking me. I don't care what the boss said."

The guy has the decency to nod and the ride passes in a blur of concrete and red brick, in flecks of green; they pass the turn off for Nana's and he thinks he should call but the exhaustion is setting in. His eyelids are drooping, he feels weak, and when he finally makes it into the ER, a few minutes behind FDR, he collapses into a chair and refuses to be moved; he sleeps right there, in view of the bed, and he mutters in his dreams that everything's okay.

;;

"Easy," Tuck whispers.

(It's a Monday, but so far from that one that he can't talk about, and they're both home in FDR's apartment.)

"Can't go much easier than this," FDR replies and nips at Tuck's throat before sliding back on his haunches. He runs his hands along Tuck's sides as he straightens, straddling his partner with the cotton of their underwear between them. "Seriously, I'm all right, Tuck."

"Uh huh. Care to go do another lap around the block?"

FDR smirks, "Just need to work on my endurance is all," and wiggles his eyebrows.

"You are absolutely shameless."

"Yup."

"Sometimes I really hate you."

"No, you don't." FDR leans in again, this time claiming Tuck's lips in a wet kiss and when he draws back says, "You're my best friend, Tuck."

The response slips free without hesitation. "And you're mine."


End file.
